


Hell of a Day

by objectlesson



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Episode: s08e12 As Time Goes By, Impala Sex, Incest, M/M, Mental Illness, Trauma, dub con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-09
Updated: 2013-02-09
Packaged: 2017-11-28 18:15:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/677371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/pseuds/objectlesson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Winchesters spilling Winchester blood for Winchester blood. And sex on the Impala.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hell of a Day

**Author's Note:**

> I really did not love this episode. It felt like a weird outtake from season 5 (aka worst most depressing least slashy season ever) so I decided to make it slashier, though not less depressing. Here lies depressing slash, in other words. I don't own them.

It’s been a weird day. Hell of a day. 

You met your grandfather. Who the fuck would have thought would have ever happened. Not you. But you met your grandfather, found out he killed your dad, as much as you did, anyway. Left him rot, like he left you to rot. Saved him by damning him to life. 

Then, your grandfather. He tried to save your dad, tried to go back, tried to raise him right like your dad tried to raise you right. But you didn’t let him. You killed him, because Sam was going to die. Your dad’s dad tried to save his son and you killed him to save your brother. The Winchester men. Dying for each other. Killing for each other. 

If anyone’s gonna kill Sam, it’s you. You have the right to his bones, to his body. He’s yours. 

You’re not gonna kill Sam, though. 

\---

You rub your hand over your face. Both are dry, both smell like salt and oil and steering wheel and night. Sam keeps staring at you; you can feel his eyes boring holes into the side of your face from the passenger side. He thinks you’re crazy. That you’ve gone crazy. Maybe you have. You don’t know. You have slices of the Knight of Hell in your back seat. You wanted to make her worse than dead a few hours ago, but now you don’t even care. You just want the memory gone, all the blood bleached out of your skull, all the little, writhing worms of her evaporated into Lebbanon like smoke. 

You love your car, but she eats gas. You have to stop soon. At a gas station, maybe. Or maybe just on the side of the road. Sam’s eyes on you, again. His brow knit like it always is, a maze of fury written out on his face like letters. 

“Dean,” he finally says. 

It’s one of those _are we gonna talk about i_ Deans. You rub your face harder, until you see stars. Stars upon stars. Real stars out before your car, static stars behind your eyes. Are you gonna talk about this? What’s there to talk about? “Yeah, Sammy,” You say. An answer, not a question. Just yeah. Yeah, I’m here. Yeah, I’m still alive. Yeah, we’re one big rattlesnake bolus of fucked up. Yeah, I don’t care. 

\---

You park the car. You’re about to throw a tarp over her, cover her up so no one can see that pretty shine from the road and get ideas or itchy finger. You don’t feel like breaking anymore bones tonight. You’re so busy thinking about what your old man might think about you throwing his old man to the dogs that you’ve forgotten about being mad at Sam. You’ve been mad at Sam your whole life, so it burns under your skin like a fever, and that burn isn’t gone, but it isn’t killing you right now. You’re not burning down everything around you, some campfire sparking the forest around it, turning the world into a rage of red-orange and blisters. 

\---

Maybe that’s why you don’t elbow him in the fucking face when he boxes you in against the car. One huge palm on either side of you, smudges on black metal. The weight of his chest, enormous and crushing, pressed into your forever aching back and it’s like a storm. The whole of the sky rumbling with thunder jamming your gut into your car. The heat of him makes your eyes sting. 

You stumble, turning to face him. “The hell, Sam,” you say, voice shuddering, unstable. 

Those hands scrape around your waist, hold you tight, thumb under flannel to touch your oblique. Your stomach jumps away from him. 

“Let me,” he says firmly, forehead pressing into yours, knee knocking your thighs apart. 

You let him. Stupid thing to fight, learned that a long time ago. 

“Let it go, Dean,” he breathes, mouthing up your neck where the marks from the last time he bit you here have faded. That was when he came back, when you waited in the cabin with your heart aching so bad it felt like it wasn’t even there anymore. Just a sick, bloody hole in the middle of your chest, Sam’s name tattooed somewhere in the whorls of muscle and bone. But then he came back, swore off of her forever. Filled the hole with his fist. Kissed you until you couldn’t breathe. Left bruises on your throat. You don’t know what he wants you to let go.

\---

Now he tongues the hollow of your throat, teeth and stubble scraping you up. And your hands shake on his back. He’s bad at buttons, always has been, so they skirt off into the night as he rips your seams asunder, fixes his mouth to the ink you share. Over your heart. His fist. His name. 

You don’t know why, but for an instant you think about hell, coming back from it with none of his scars, just a handprint burnt onto your shoulder. You think about how weird Sam was about it. Silently carving marks into you, lines through his brow. You remember the way his breath sounded coming in and out of him as he made you bleed. The rhythm of it saying _mine again mine again mine again mine._

\---

You guess that’s what you do together. Claim the other’s skin as your own. Take out anyone else who gets in the way. Throw blood under the bus to save other blood. Too many scars by Sam’s hand on your hide, and he’s full of your teeth, your nails, your fists, too. 

You’re too fucked by one another for anyone else. He’s yours to kill, yours to save. Your hands are shaking on his back. They still shake as they move up to his shoulders, fist and pull in his hair. He knows he has you now, his lips salty and rough on your mouth. “Aways know what you need, Dean. When you need it.” 

\---

You shake and you shake. Under his lips, his palms, the callous leaving new raw spots between the old ones. He forces you back around again, his chest that infernal weight on your spine. The weight of the world, the weight of a whole past and a whole destiny of blood spilling blood for blood. To swallow it, fuck it to pieces, put it back together again, eat it, shit it out, fuck the corpse. You shake. 

Sam unbuckles your levis and drops them around your knees, and you can feel the line of him, hot and yearning, against your ass. You want to sob. You do sob. Your mouth drools onto the roof of your car, fogs it up with want and misery, your eyes slide shut but you still see stars.

Sam bears down on you, crushes you. Eases his fingers in your mouth, not even to get spit, just to feel the slick, slippery insides of your cheeks, the panting muscle of your tongue, the ridges on the roof of your mouth. He knows no one else has ever touched you here, that no one ever will. The space under his nails tastes bitter. You eat the dirt out from under his nails. You drool on the roof. You think about your dad, all alone, all those years ago, while his dad burnt, all those years in the future. 

\---

You don’t want to think about that anymore. You don’t want to think about all the aloneness in your life, because you’re not alone. You left Lisa alone. You left Benny alone. You left Cas alone. You left the whole fucking world alone to rot, because you couldn’t stand the idea of your brother being not-alone with anyone but you. He’s yours. Your bones to break. You don’t want to think about broken bones anymore, so you back yourself up onto Sam’s fingers as they twist into you, open you up where you’re dark and filthy and made for him. 

The road stretches on forever for miles behind you, in front of you. Illinois was lonely, Kansas is even more lonely. You are not. You and Sam, not alone together, are alone for miles, so you yell. Just yell against the stars, bellow and scream and punch your fist into the rim of the door where you fixed the metal yourself so you know it’s strong, where you know it can stand the blow. You scream and Sam holds onto the nape of your neck with his teeth. Sam has three fingers up to the last joint buried in your ass. You know he can feel you twitching, the veins thundering with blood, every last smear of shit and clench of muscle you have left in your body for him. 

\---

He holds your dick in his other hand, cradling the weighty length of it, jerks it with his thumb sliding through the slickness leaking from your cockhead. His hands are huge; they hold all of you. One from the inside out, the other from the outside in. You’re stuck between his hands, boxed in. You’re gonna break, your bones aren’t big enough for his hands. You want to break, you want your bones to crack around him. You want to restructure yourself. You want to be rebuild to accommodate him. You scream. Your cheek slides in a sour pool of your own spit. 

Sam makes you come on your car. You feel your body try and hold his hand inside of you. You feel him gasp, his teeth dig so deep into that top-most knob of your spine that there will be craters there, purple smatterings of blood drawn to the surface. A swelling you’ll hate him for in the morning. You hate him for it now. Your bones are not rebuilt. You still can’t hold the whole of him inside you. You want to sob. You do sob. 

\---

He jacks off over you and comes on your back. It drops in hot, sticky ribbons on you; you twitch under it. You imagine it reflecting in weak starlight. His fingers are still sunk deep into you, crooking, stroking because he loves the feel of you here. He tells you all the time, with your knees bent over his shoulder and his tongue in your throat. You can fit against each other in so many ways, but not inside each other, like nesting dolls, like forks in a kitchen drawer, other things which are made to fit inside each other. He rubs his spent dick into your ass crack, smears you with his come. 

“Better?” he asks. 

“Yeah,” You rasp. You might be lying. You don’t even know. Your hands shake. Your knees shake. You shake. You sink to the earth, and he towers above you, a silhouette in the night. 

\---

“It’s been a weird day,” he says. 

“Hell of a day,” you echo. 

You rub the back of your neck. Fuck. Hurts. You should kill him for this. 

But you’re not gonna kill Sam.


End file.
